


On the Outside Looking In

by femalegothic



Series: something tender, anyway [2]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Annie POV, Brief description of violence, Dean POV, F/M, I'm sorry he's even in this story, Rhea POV, She's long suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femalegothic/pseuds/femalegothic
Summary: Beth and Gang Friend. Gang Friend and Beth. Together or something. [Annie] turns it over and over in her head. No matter which way she looks at it, she can’t understand it. Like on some level, she does get it—Gang Friend is hot in like a scary way, and her sister is hot in like a MILF-y type of way—and she gets how two hot people might want to bone. But Gang Friend and her sister specifically? Makes no sense.---Five outside perspectives.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: something tender, anyway [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874368
Comments: 52
Kudos: 356





	1. One Way to Look at It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t make any sense to Dean. 
> 
> How does a man who has all these beautiful women throwing themselves at him, only want Beth? His Bethie?
> 
> Sure, she was beautiful in her own way. Everyone always told him he was so lucky that his wife was so beautiful. And he’d always agreed—she was beautiful. She still is beautiful. But she’s older and heavier now, the strain of having four kids obvious on her face and body. And of course, he loves her just as she is. She is his wife, the mother of his children. But even he can’t deny that she simply isn’t as beautiful now as she once was. Certainly not as beautiful as all these other women.
> 
> And yet, that man didn’t look twice at any of them.

Jane’s Wednesday night soccer practices are the highlight of Dean’s week. He often finds himself triple-checking his watch at work, counting down the minutes until he’ll be helping her into her long socks, loading her into the car, and driving her out to the field. He’d never imagined he could be so excited about something so trivial, but he just loves spending time with her. Even more, he loves watching his daughter play soccer. She's athletic in a way his other kids just aren't. Sure Kenny swims and Emma dances, but they aren't good at those things in the way Jane is good at soccer. It fills him with pride to see her running circles around the other kids—she's just like him when he was her age.

To think, he’d been so annoyed when Beth told him he had to handle all of Jane’s soccer stuff—it had been her idea to sign her up for this league in the first place—but now, he's glad she took those extra shifts at the paper place. Now they had this special time together—just him and Jane.

That day was no different than any other day. Dean got Jane ready for practice, trying his best to wrestle her hair into a passable braid. He’d mostly succeeded—it was a little loose maybe, but at least all the hair seemed to be in the braid this time. It didn’t matter anyway. Pam fixed for him like she always did, cooing over how good a father he was just to try. 

He wished Beth would appreciate him like that. 

Can’t she see he’s trying? To be a better father. To be a better husband. He's trying so hard, but these days, it's like she barely sees him at all.

Dean is sitting on a bench by the field, not really paying attention to the practice. They’re just running shooting drills and he’s bored of watching them miss the goal. Jane doesn’t, of course, but there’s a limit to how many times he can watch her do the same thing over and over again. 

His gaze wanders to a beautiful young blonde running nearby. Her body is so incredible he can’t help but stare at her so he shifts on the bench to get a better look, hoping that he’s being subtle. He swallows thickly as he takes her in. Her little lycra running shorts leave little to the imagination. His eyes follow the black material up her body, from her lean thighs, along the curve of her tight ass to the dip of her narrow waist. Her pert breasts are straining against her sports bra.

He’s so caught up in watching them bounce as she runs that he doesn’t realize where she’d been headed until she stops. He struggles to tear his gaze away from the heave of her perfect chest until he realizes why she’s stopped—she’s talking to a man. 

_That man._ The one who ruined his life and his marriage. 

He’s shocked at first, can barely believe what he’s seeing. That violent, inked-up thug is sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the field, talking to the beautiful blonde.

Anger swells in Dean’s chest. 

He can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s clear she’s flirting with him. Her body is angled toward him with an arm crossed under her breasts to push them up. With her other hand, she’s twirling a strand from her long ponytail around her finger. She’s smiling wide and throwing her head back with laughter at seemingly everything that he says.

But the man seems completely unaffected by her, uninterested even. He’s smiling too, but it's more polite than anything else. If Dean couldn’t see the modelesque, half-naked woman standing in right in front of him, he’d think he was merely giving an elderly grandmother directions. 

Dean watches them chat for what seems like forever, arms crossed and seething. Then the woman’s face falters, disappointment flickering across her beautiful features and she off running again. The man doesn’t even give her a second glance as she leaves, rather he turns his gaze back to the field, apparently more interested in the stupid shooting drills than the gorgeous woman throwing herself at him.

Dean sits there, glaring at the man, his anger growing with each passing moment. 

Now that he’s watching him, he notices all of the women looking at him too. Maybe it’s his imagination, maybe all this anger is making him see things, but it seems as if every mother, nanny, and grandmother in the park are sneaking glances at the man. He can even hear a group of giggling teenage girls sitting on the next bench over, fawning over how hot the man is, all daring each other to go over and talk to him. 

Dean nearly snaps at them to shut up.

While he sits there fuming, two more women approach the man. Both are beautiful—young and fit—but still, the man hardly looks at them. They each walk away with the same disappointed faces as the runner.

It doesn’t make any sense to Dean. 

How does a man who has all these beautiful women throwing themselves at him, only want Beth? His Bethie?

Sure, she was beautiful in her own way. Everyone always told him he was so lucky that his wife was so beautiful. And he’d always agreed—she was beautiful. She still is beautiful. But she’s older and heavier now, the strain of having four kids obvious on her face and body. And of course, he loves her just as she is. She is his wife, the mother of his children. But even he can’t deny that she simply isn’t as beautiful now as she once was. Certainly not as beautiful as all these other women.

And yet, that man didn’t look twice at any of them. 

It was as if he didn’t see them at all. Sure he seemed polite enough, smiling at them as they spoke to him, but each time—no matter how beautiful the woman—he sent them on their way and returned to watching the dull practice.

It’s not until his daughter comes running up to him that Dean realizes he’d missed her practice entirely. She’s asking him if he’d seen all her goals or if he’d watched her dribbling through the cones. He hadn't, but he pats her on the head and assures her he’d seen everything, that she’d been amazing. Looking at the pure joy in Jane’s eyes, he really wishes he’d been watching. He’d been so caught up in glaring at the man that he hadn’t spared his own daughter a second glance.

Was there any part of his family life that this man couldn’t ruin?

“Daddy?” Jane’s looking up at him, a hopeful look on her sweet face. Had she asked him something? He wasn’t sure. She must notice his confusion because she rolls her big green eyes and chastises him for not listening—just like her mother would.

“I said,” she huffs up at him, arms crossed, “Can Marcus come over and play this weekend?” 

“Marcus?” The name seems familiar, but Dean can’t quite place it. It must be one of her little soccer friends.

“Yeah, Daddy, my second bestest friend after Alana,” she looks really annoyed now, her face adorably scrunched up, “I told you about him, like, a hundred bajillion times.”

“Ah yes!” he exclaims, sweeping her up into his arms, “Of course, I remember! How could I forget your second bestest friend!” She giggles and throws her arms around his neck. 

“So he can come play?” She asks, smiling her sweetest smile, the one that melts his heart whenever he sees it. How could he say no to such a face? 

He gives her cheek a little pinch. “Sure, sweetie.” 

Her smile widens and she squeezes his neck a little tighter. “Thank you, daddy.” 

Dean hugs her closer, savoring the moment. Jane pulls back, talking excitedly about all the things she wants to do with Marcus. He’s only half-listening, just enjoying hearing her ramble, as he gathers up her soccer bag and starts heading toward the parking lot.

“Daddy, daddy, wait!” He stops, confused, “What is it, pumpkin? Did you forget something?”

“No, _you_ forgot something!” Jane exclaims, shifting in his arms so she can point across the field, “You have to ask Marcus’s daddy when he can come over.” 

He follows her pointed finger to the man, now casually strolling toward them, holding hands with a little boy.

Fuck. 

He remembers now where he’d heard the name. Jane told him before about how “mommy’s friend with the bird on his neck” had a little boy about her age and that they played together at the park while mommy met up with her “friend.” 

Dean struggles to stay composed as the man approaches, not wanting to upset his daughter. He can’t believe the nerve of this man to approach him as if he has any right. But he walks right up to them as if he was just a regular dad, and not the lowlife criminal Dean knows he is. He’s smirking as he greets them with unwelcome familiarity. 

Dean holds Jane closer to his chest.

His resolve to stay collected nearly breaks the second the man opens his mouth. He would give anything to punch him right in his smirking face. It felt so good the last time he’d done it. Dean's even confident that he could beat him in a fight now, after all, he's in the best shape of his adult life after months of krav maga. He imagines it for a moment, beating the shit out of this man, getting him back for everything he’d done to him, for everything he’d stolen from him.

“Yo, you wanna sort this out or what?” the man askes.

“What?” Dean struggles to keep calm as if the man who slept with his wife isn’t asking him about arranging playdate for their children

“When’s good? ” Dean just glares at him, not responding. 

“To drop Marcus off?” The man speaks slowly as if he’s talking to a toddler. "Saturday maybe?"

“I don’t–If you think–” he sputters for a moment, his voice rising, “If you–If you think that you’re welcome in my house–”

“Daddy!” Jane’s shriek cuts him off, “Daddy! You already said!”

The man is laughing at him now. 

Dean fumbles for the right words to tell his daughter that her friend can’t come over. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. He hates having to tell her no, especially when he’s already said yes, but the man’s laughter rings in his ears, fogging his brain with rage. He’s about ready to kill him himself. Maybe this time he’d stay dead. 

“Seems like you gotta lot on your mind, man. Maybe I should just work it out with your wife.” Dean nearly launches himself at the man. If he wasn’t holding Jane, he would have tackled him right then and there. He should knock his lights out just for mentioning her. How dare he talk about his wife? 

“Stay away from MY wife!” His outburst catches the attention of a pair of moms standing nearby, but he doesn’t care. He’s shaking with rage. He can barely hear Jane begging him to let Marcus come over, reminding him that he’d already promised.

He tries his best to comfort her, turning his attention away from the man for a moment. He promises they’ll get ice cream on the way home, but it’s no use, Jane is inconsolable, yelling "you promised" over and over in his ear. 

Dean turns back to the man just to see him walking away. He calls back over his shoulder, “I’ll give her a call, yeah?”

Dean watches them leave, not looking away until he’s driven off with his son in that stupid black G Wagon. Jane throws a fit the entire time they stand there, hitting him with her little fists and still shrieking about how he promised. 

Once the man is gone, he stalks over to Beth’s minivan and loads a struggling Jane into her booster seat. She screams the whole way home, telling him he’s ruined her life and that she’ll never forgive him. He barely hears her over the sound of that man laughing at him still roaring in his ears. Over and over, he replays every wrong that man has done him. When he beat him in his own home. When he shot him. When he’d put his hands on his wife.

He’d ruined her. He dragged her down into the dirt with him. Forced her to commit crimes. To be at his beck and call, attending to his every whim. To ignore Dean and neglect their children. To turn her back on their family.

But why Beth?

Why would a man like that bother with some average housewife?

The second he stops the car, Jane shoots out of it, her booster seat clattering onto the driveway. Dean watches her run into the house, crying for her mommy, and slamming the door behind her. He sits there for a long time, trying to gather himself, knowing there’s a fight waiting for him inside. He knows he’s right, that this is all her fault, but he’s tired of arguing with her. 

He’s tired of begging her to put their family first.

When he finally goes inside, Beth is standing at the kitchen island, calmly chopping vegetables for dinner. He’s struck by how much he misses this side of her, how much he misses the days before that man came into their lives. If he could go back, he’d do things differently. He’d stop that man from ruining their perfect family. 

Dean wishes he could see her like this every day—just the way she always used to be.

The spell is broken when she looks up at him, her mouth drawn into a tight grimace, clearly unimpressed with him. She looks at him like that a lot these days. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but he beats her to it. He’s annoyed that she has the nerve to be annoyed with him when it's her fault they’re in this situation.

He really lets her have it. Tells her how that man ruined soccer practice, how he’s ruining their family. It’s her fault, he tells her, that Jane is crying. She’s the one that brought that thug around. She should have never introduced him to their kids. Never should have allowed their daughter to befriend his son. He’s putting his foot down, he won’t allow her to endanger their children any more just because she can’t stay away from that lowlife.

She doesn’t argue with him. She just stands there, watching him rant with a blank expression. 

“Are you done?” she asks, voice dull.

“Is that all you have to say?” He’s dumbfounded by her lack of response.

She shrugs. “I can’t stop him from taking his kid to soccer practice.” She holds his gaze for a moment before turning back to the vegetables.

“Why him, Bethie?” 

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look up.

He stands there, watching her, the dull thud of the knife on the chopping block booming in the silence stretching between them.

He examines her closely, taking stock of all her beautiful parts, looking for whatever it is that makes her different from any other beautiful woman. Her shiny blonde hair and her smooth pale skin. Her wide blue eyes and full pink mouth. Her massive breasts and round ass. Sure, he loves all these things about her—he loves her—but, at the end of the day, she’s just some beautiful suburban mother of four. There’s nothing special about her except that she’s special to him.

No matter how hard Dean looks, he just can’t see it—whatever it is that man sees in her.


	2. An Unbelievable Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhea POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my friend Elsie for Marcus's nickname. This entire series is dedicated to her.

She’d shot Chris a text before she left the house—she had to bring Marcus over two hours earlier than usual—mostly out of courtesy. She knew he’d be home; he always spent the early morning hours on drop off days preparing a delicious breakfast spread for their son. It was his special thing, his way of ensuring Marcus always felt at home wherever Chris happened to be living.

Rhea pulls up to his new building at a quarter to six, pleased with her excellent timing. She would have just enough time to stop by her favorite bagel place before heading into work. She hated having to get Marcus up so early during a three day weekend, but Anna’s daughter was sick with the flu, and she needed someone to cover for her. Sure it wasn’t ideal, but Rhea wasn’t about to turn her back on a friend, not when she could easily help her.

Helping Marcus tug on his travel bag and taking him by the hand, Rhea leads him into his father’s new apartment building. It’s her first time seeing it, but it looks just like every other place he’s ever lived—sleek, modern, and luxurious. She smiles to herself, impressed that he’s found a luxury apartment building in downtown Detroit that he _hasn’t_ lived in yet. 

Rhea doesn’t knock when she reaches his apartment—she never does—that’s why he’d given her a key after all. Stepping through the door, she goes to call out to him and let him know they’re here. But the scene waiting for her in his kitchen makes the words catch in her throat.

He’s home, just like she’d expected, but he’s not alone. 

She’s so shocked to see a woman in his kitchen that she doesn’t even recognize her at first. She blinks rapidly, shaking her head a bit, trying to process exactly what she’s seeing. She feels a bit like a fish with the way she’s opening and closing her mouth, trying to find something to say. But no words come to her, too shocked at the sight right in front of her. 

She honestly can’t believe it.

Beth Boland is sitting in Chris’s kitchen. Very much alive and seemingly, very much invited.

For a long moment, she just stares, taking them in. Beth’s half sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, hands wrapped tightly around a green ceramic mug. She’s turned slightly, looking back at Rhea over her shoulder. At first, Beth’s eyes are wide and her mouth slightly agape, but her surprise lingers only for a second. She quickly schools her face, her expression settling into a carefully neutral mask. But her darting eyes and slightly downturned mouth give away her discomfort. 

Rhea’s own frown deepens. Even though Beth is fully dressed—wool coat, boots, and all—Rhea knows instantly she spent the night there. Her blonde hair, usually carefully curled, hangs in loose waves around her bare face. There’s smudged mascara under her eyes as if she’d tried to remove it with soap and water rather than makeup remover. Not once, back when they’d been friends, had Rhea ever seen her without makeup.

Chris is standing on the other side of the island, leaning casually against the opposite counter, arms folded across his chest. He looks so comfortable leaning there; she might have even believed he’d been standing there before she walked in if not for the second green mug sitting less than a foot from the one in Beth’s hands. His face is similarly neutral, though more seemingly more relaxed. But Rhea knows him too well to be fooled by him. She can see the tension in the set of his shoulders and the defiant glint in his dark eyes.

He notices her notice the mug and pushes himself off the counter, rolling his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height. He doesn’t break eye contact with her, daring her to say something. Rhea opens her mouth, ready to tell him exactly what she thinks of him when she realizes that her son is saying something to Beth. 

Rhea glances down at Marcus, who’s still holding her hand. He’s swaying forward slightly, looking around expectantly, an excited look on his adorable face.

“No, sweetie, she’s not here.” Beth’s tone is warm and sweet—a well-practiced mama voice—but there’s s a slight quiver in her tight-lipped smile, and the words sound strained as if she’s struggling to get them out.

“Oh,” Marcus says with obvious disappointment, but he quickly bounces back with his most charming, gapped tooth smile, “Can you bring her next time you come?” He’s staring at Beth, eyes wide and pleading. “Puh-leaseeee?”

“Uh, sure,” Beth says, eyes darting between Chris and Rhea as if she’s waiting for one of them to contradict her. Neither does.

Marcus is thoroughly pleased with that response, tugging on Rhea’s hand with a cheerful, “Mama, Jane’s coming over!”

“That’s nice, pollito.” Rhea hardly hears her own voice, barely even heard Marcus. Her focus is locked on Chris, standing there with that defiant look still plastered on his face. Her head is spinning. She can barely think straight; she’s so angry. She can’t believe Chris would do this—bring this woman back into his life, back into their son’s life—after everything she’d done to them. To their family.

She’s staring him down, trying to convey all her anger with her eyes alone. She doesn’t want to fight in front of their son—they’d done enough of that when they were still together—and she’s definitely not about to do it in front of Beth. This is a family matter, and as far as Rhea is concerned, Beth has no business being anywhere near their family. 

If Marcus notices the awkwardness, he doesn’t show it. He’s too busy telling “Mrs. Boland” about how he just got a new pirate ship lego set and that he told Jane she could help him put it together. Beth just nods along, her eyes still darting around. She gives him an affirming “that sounds nice” before standing up, the stool knocking into the island with a sharp bang. 

Rhea whips her head toward Beth, who takes a couple steps away from the island and pauses as if she’s unsure of where she’s going. Beth is staring across the loft, her brows furrowed and her mouth pulled into a tight line. Rhea follows her gaze to Chris’s unmade bed that is visible from the kitchen. She’s confused for a split second, but then she spots it—a big, brown purse sitting on the nightstand. Beth stands there, glaring hard at the purse as if she can magic it off the nightstand and into her hand.

As suddenly as she stopped, Beth starts walking again, striding across the loft confidently, shoulders back and head up. But Rhea isn’t fooled by her little performance—she can see the blotchy red patches blooming on her neck and the quivering in her hand as she clenches her fist. She’s ashamed at being caught. Rhea rolls her eyes; she should be ashamed to be there at all. 

Chris is watching her, too, following her every move as she grabs her purse and moves toward the door. Rhea’s taken aback by the warmth in his expression, and for the first time since she stepped through the door, she feels as if she is the intruder. 

Beth stops, hand on the doorknob, and turns back to them. She opens her mouth to say something, but quickly clamps it shut, wilting a bit under Rhea’s glare. Instead, she gives them a terse wave, more a flick of her wrist than anything else, and yanks open the door. 

Marcus yells out, “Bye, Mrs. Boland,” before it closes behind her. 

Rhea stares at the closed door for a long, tense moment, steeling herself to say what she’s about to say. She hates fighting with Chris—it’s exhausting—they can go round and round in circles and never get anywhere. She already knows it’s going to be one of those fights. She can feel it in every fiber of her being.

She sighs. There’s no way she’ll make it to work on time. 

When she turns back around, Chris is crouching down to talk to their son. Despite her anger, a warm wave of affection washes over her. She loves to see him like this, being the amazing father she knows he can be. After a quick back and forth about breakfast, Chris wraps Marcus in a firm hug before sending him off to watch She-Ra in his room with his headphones _on_. Marcus gives Rhea a quick squeeze around the middle before scampering out of the kitchen, dragging his travel bag behind him. 

They return to staring at each other, both straining to hear Marcus settling in his room. His face is still defiant, and his arms are crossed firmly over his chest. He’s got some nerve to look at her like that—like he’s done nothing wrong. Like she hadn’t caught him playing house with his wannabe murderer. 

She’s going to rip him a new one for this. Of all the bone-headed, selfish things he’s ever done, this has got to be the worst. 

The second Rhea hears Marcus’s delighted laughter, she opens her mouth, ready to tear into him. But Chris is too quick, cutting her off with a sharp, “Don’t.” 

“Are you serious right now,” she snaps, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. 

“I’m serious. Just–” he sighs, “Just don’t.”

She really can’t believe him. “You really think I’m just not going to say anything about this?” Rhea shakes her head incredulously, “About her?”

“It's just business, ma.” He’s lying. She can see it written all over his face.

“Oh?” she asks, voice dripping with sarcasm, “You often have business sleepovers?”

“She didn't–”

“Don’t lie to me!” she says, louder than intended. Dropping her voice low, she hisses out, “I know she slept here, don’t try to tell me she didn’t.”

Chris doesn’t say anything. 

“What is wrong with you?” she continues, “I’ve always thought you were a smart man, but I guess all that blood loss cost you a few brain cells.”

He opens his mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t interrupt me. You’re going to listen to what I have to say.” His jaw clenches, but he stays quiet. “How dare you bring her here.”

“It’s my place–” he begins, but she cuts him off again. 

“It’s where our son lives.” 

He looks down, a deep frown on his face.

How many times would she have to beg him to put their son first? She knows he loves Marcus, that he’s a dedicated and devoted father, but she also knows he’s selfish. He wouldn’t change for her, but a part of her still hoped that he would change for their son if she could only find the right words.

Before Marcus, Rhea never cared much about his lifestyle. Sure, she worried about him, but in an abstract way, as if the violence would never reach him. For a long time, he seemed invincible—cool, collected, and untouchable. Even when he came home to her bruised and bleeding, she couldn’t quite wrap her head around his life’s reality. She’d just patched him up and kept quiet.

When she got pregnant, she was so sure things would be different. She’d genuinely believed they could make it work. He’d been so sweet back then, eager to build their life together—to be a family. She’d been so in love with him—so enamored with their plans to marry and raise their child together—she couldn’t see just how incompatible he was with the life they both said they wanted. She convinced herself that, once Marcus was born, he’d finally see that he could be happy with a normal life, that their family would be enough.

But they weren’t enough, not for him. 

Rhea’s not that naive, lovestruck girl anymore. She knows now that he won’t change, not for anyone, but that doesn’t mean she won’t let him know exactly how his choices hurt Marcus.

“He asked for you every day you were gone,” she says softly, unable to keep her voice from trembling, “That’s what you don’t understand–” she pauses, trying to gather herself, “You don’t have to see him cry himself to sleep every night. You don’t have to reassure him his dad will be home even soon when you don’t know yourself.” 

His frown deepens, and his eyes close beneath his tight-knit brow. She knows it hurts him to hear it—it always does—but it hurts her even more, to see the pain in Marcus’ eyes when she tells him she doesn’t know when he’ll see his dad again. 

“She took you away from your son, Christopher.” Her voice is quiet; she can barely get the words out.

He still doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what it is about her that has you so twisted up, but you need to get your head on straight.” Rhea closes the distance between them to put her hand on his arm. “Marcus and I...you know how much we love you. Even though–” she pauses, sucking in a ragged breath, “Even though things didn’t work out between you and me, we are still a family.”

Chris looks up at her finally, placing his hand over hers. “I know,” he whispers.

“We can’t lose you.” His hand is warm as he squeezes her fingers.

“You won’t–”

“You know you can’t promise that,” she says solemnly, slipping her fingers from his, “but you can be more careful.”

He’s quiet again, his jaw clenching as he thinks over what she’s said.

“I will be,” he promises. 

Their gazes meet again, softer now, their long history hanging heavily between them. He’s broken so many promises, told her so many lies that she can’t help but search for the deceit in his face. But she finds nothing but sincerity in his warm brown eyes. This time she believes that he means it—he’s going to be more careful—but there’s something in his expression, a twitch of his lips maybe, that sets her on edge. He’ll be careful as long as it suits him. 

He won’t stop seeing her. She knows he won’t.

Rio will do what he wants, just like he always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to post as much as I can before things pick up with school. Let me know if you would rather have Annie's POV, Beth/Rio's (sexual) reunion, or their G Wagon sexcapades first. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr:  
> @femalegothic  
> @bethsuglywigs


	3. Up Close and Way Too Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annie sees something she really wishes she didn't see.

Annie knows she shouldn’t be doing this—in fact, Beth explicitly told her _not_ to more than once—but she just can’t help herself. Knowing that there’s an uncountable supply of Beth’s award-winning blueberry mini-muffins (not to mention the apple streusel and pumpkin donuts) sitting unguarded in the backroom of Boland Bubbles is just too tempting. So what if they’re for a charity bake sale tomorrow, Annie’s hungry and tired, and no one will ever notice if she takes a few for herself—just enough for a couple breakfasts—she’ll grab like ten (twenty?) tops. No one will ever know the difference. Plus, it's not like Beth is actually in it for the charity. She’s just trying to drum up some goodwill and business for the store so people (the FBI) won’t notice all the money laundering. Like morally speaking, that’s definitely way worse than Annie snagging some muffins.

She knows Beth won’t be there after hours today. She’d been going on and on in the group chat (SQUAAD!!) about taking the night off after her marathon week of printing, baking, and crime-ing. Annie can picture her now lounging on her (new) couch in some ugly jammie set, watching some boring-ass movie and like, knitting or something equally old lady-ish.

It would be just like Beth to spend her only night off in six months being lame as hell.

Stepping into the dark showroom, her eyes are immediately drawn to the only source of light in the whole building—a lamp is on in Beth’s office, illuminating, well, _something_ on Beth's desk. At first, she’s not quite sure what she’s looking at; it's some sort of writhing, dark mass. It looks almost like a large cat, like a jaguar or a cheetah or something, but as far as she knows, those kinds of cats aren’t usually shopping for hot tubs in suburban Michigan. As quietly as she can, Annie digs the pepper spray out of her purse—she can’t be too careful, you know, in case it is actually a tiger, escaped from the zoo or like, some rich guy’s penthouse. With the little pink tube grasped tightly in her hand, she steps closer, the soles of her converse squeaking slightly on the linoleum.

Shit. She freezes, but whatever’s on the desk must not have heard it. So she takes a few more tentative steps forward, her heart beating rapidly in her throat. With each step, the shape becomes more distinct until it's suddenly very clear what's happening on Beth’s desk.

Two people are just absolutely _going to town_ on top of it.

Annie nearly pepper sprays herself in the face when she snaps her hands to her mouth to stifle her laughter, not wanting to alert the love birds to her presence. Oh, she can’t wait to tell Beth that her employees were getting down and dirty in her office. It’ll be so worth it tattle on her mini-muffin heist just to see the look on Beth’s face, red and twisted with indignation when she finds out her space has been desecrated like this.

Ho ho ho—Christmas is coming early this year.

Annie moves a bit closer, trying to get a better look. If she had to guess, she’d say it’s the receptionist Barb and Tom the maintenance guy. They’ve got a bit of a middle-aged Jim and Pam thing going on, and Anne wouldn’t be surprised if they’d hung out after closing for a little hanky panky in the boss’ office (who hasn’t). God, she hopes Barb’s got her bare ass on Beth’s desk right now. 

Finally, she’s close enough to make the figures out, and well, it’s definitely not Barb.

Annie’s jaw hits the ground. No. Fucking. Way.

The woman on the desk is definitely _Beth_ —no one else on Earth would ever wear such an ugly floral blouse to an illicit hookup.

She can’t really see the man’s face (because it’s buried in her sister’s neck), but she’s at least ninety-thousand percent sure it's Gang Friend macking on her sister. The giant tan hand twisted up in Beth’s blonde hair is a dead give away. Besides, who else could it be? Certainly not Deansie (and definitely not Tom the maintenance guy).

It’s one thing to know your sister has a sex life (though until this very moment, she would have bet her left tit that Beth was at least a year into a very dry spell). But it’s a whole other thing to see it up close and in person. Okay, maybe she’s not really that close. But still, like, she’s way too close because she can literally see her sister having sex right _now!_ Well, maybe not quite having sex yet, but clearly, they are well on their way. From where Annie’s standing, it looks like they’ve rounded all the bases and are about to slide home.

Gross.

She’s gotta get out of there—mini-muffins be damned! There’s no way she’s just going to stand here and watch her sister get it in. And based on the tight grip Gang Friend has on Beth’s ass, Annie’s very concerned that he’s quite literally about to slip it in.

Turning on her heel, she flees, escaping into the night like a bat out of hell.

*** 

Annie takes a couple days to process what she saw at Boland Bubbles, to heal from the trauma of seeing her sister getting railed (or at least very, very close to getting railed). Anyone would need time to recover from something like that. The image of them together is practically seared into her retinas, and every time she closes her eyes, she can still see them grinding on each other like two horny teenagers at homecoming, leaving absolutely no room for Jesus.

She’s so caught up in trying to bleach them from her memory that it takes her way longer than she’d like to admit to realize something very crucial. The realization hits her so hard and so fast that she feels like she might actually fall over at the breakfast table.

It was _Beth’s_ idea to call off the hit.

She hadn’t realized it before because Beth had been so sneaky, choosing her words carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. Annie can’t believe she actually fell for it—she actually believed it was Ruby’s idea this whole time. But now that she thinks about it, she can see all the ways Beth steered them toward it. All the comments about wasting money. Her emphasis on how much more they were making with the gang's support. Her weird insistence that Boland Bubbles made them too valuable to kill now.

Annie can only imagine what else she’d said to Ruby. Probably spent a lot of time whispering in her ear about morals and the sanctity of human life or some shit like that. It would be just like Beth to manipulate them into doing whatever she wants instead of actually having an honest conversation for once in her life.

God. That fucking lying liar who’s always fucking lying!

Annie smacks the table, startling Ben so much he nearly knocks over his cereal.

“Mom?”

“Sorry,” she replies, waving her hand distractedly, “thought I saw a bug or something.”

“Okay…,” he says, turning back to his Cinnamon Toast Crunch but still giving her some serious side-eye.

Annie sighs and rubs her eyes, smearing the smoky remnants of yesterday’s eyeliner.

Beth and Gang Friend. Gang Friend and Beth. Together or something. She turns it over and over in her head. No matter which way she looks at it, she can’t understand it. Like on some level, she does get it—Gang Friend is hot in like a scary way, and her sister is hot in like a MILF-y type of way—and she gets how two hot people might want to bone. But Gang Friend and her sister specifically? Makes no sense.

Not after everything.

Staring into her own cereal milk, Annie takes stock of what she knows about Beth and Gang Friend. Not much, admittedly. They’d slept together before, multiple times apparently, but Annie doesn’t even know how that happened in the first place so it's not really helpful now. Then he’d sent her body parts through the mail, not the most romantic gesture, but it worked? Maybe? At least it seemed as if they were on semi-speaking terms when she shot him—god, Beth literally SHOT the man! And somehow they're still boning? Literally what on earth.

Annie grinds the heel of her hands into her eyes, desperately wracking her brain for an explanation, but coming up totally blank. Nada. Nichts. Zilch. When had they even had the time to start an affair between the shooting, and the death-threatening, and the hitman, and Lucy— _Lucy_.

Poor sweet, innocent Lucy.

Dead and buried in that unmarked grave.

For weeks, Lucy’s death played on repeat in Annie’s mind. Over and over, she watched the brief moment of fear flash across her face before Mick pulled the trigger, the sharp crack of the gun echoing in the still night air. She could remember the way the blood splattered inside of the van and the wet thunk of Lucy’s body hitting the ground. She’d had nightmares for months—waking up sweating and crying and hoping against all hope that it was just a dream. But every time she’d remember that Lucy was really dead.

And Rio killed her—instead of Beth or to punish Beth, Annie doesn't know. 

But what she does know is that nothing good can come from this.

She’d been so caught up in the absurdity of Beth and Rio together that she hadn’t even stopped to think about what will happen when this inevitably goes wrong. But now it’s hitting her like a train and she's overcome with dread.

_What if he kills Beth, too?_

Suddenly it’s very easy to forget his firm grip on her sister’s ass because all she can think about is his firm grip on his gun—pressing it against her forehead and pulling the trigger—just like his boy had done to Lucy. The memory rolls through her, her stomach clenching and bile rising in her throat, and she nearly vomits right there at the table, thinking about Lucy’s milky, dead eyes.

That could have been Beth. That will be Beth if she’s not careful.

It’s not a comforting thought. Beth and careful go together like oreos and orange juice. There’s no way she’s being even remotely careful. Annie has to do something now before her sister ends up in a shallow grave of her own.

***

Annie thinks about telling Ruby before the string, but ultimately decides against. The element of surprise is crucial to the success of Operation Scare Beth Straight and she’s not sure Ruby wouldn’t blow her cover immediately with the (valid) judgmental looks. So she bides her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

It comes several days later during Bachelorette night. They’ve got about an hour before the show starts so their posted up at Beth’s kitchen island drinking wine and picking at the artfully made carcooterie (it’s got cooter in is somewhere, she thinks) board thing. Beth’s had two glass of red wine at this point, so she’s really at her peak as far as personality goes—not drunk really, just loose and fun in a way fully sober Beth isn’t. She and Ruby are laughing loudly at something and Annie knows now is the time to make her move.

She’d thought a lot about what she’s going to say, running through every possible scenario and word combination that might just get through her sister’s thick head. She’d come up with some pretty good stuff, at least she thought so anyway. Beth would be proud if she wasn’t the one about to receive the lecture. But her plan immediately goes to shit when Ruby says those fateful words: “What’s gotten into you?”

Annie just can’t help herself, her preplanned opening flying out of her mind like a cow in a tornado. “Oh I’ll tell you what’s gotten into her,” she pauses for dramatic effect, “Gangfriend. _Again_.”

Ruby’s jaw drops. Beth’s head snaps toward Annie and she gives her a look so withering Annie’s briefly concerned she might climb over the island and throttle her.

“I’m sorry,” Ruby’s eyes flicker rapidly between Beth and Annie, wide with disbelief, “What?”

Beth open’s her mouth, but Annie cut her off, “Don’t try to deny it. I saw you, with my own two eyes, getting down and dirty with him at Boland Bubbles on Friday.” Beth glares at her but snaps her mouth shut. Annie studies her sister for a moment, a faux quizzical look on her face as if she’s trying hard to figure something out, “So...do you have, like, the tightest gorilla grip in Detroit or something?”

Ruby snorts.

“I don’t know what that means,” Beth says cooly, folding her arms over her chest.

“Like he’s gotta have other options right?” Ruby huffs out what sounds like a “definitely.” Beth shoots her a sharp look, but Ruby just gives her a little shrug, obviously not sorry for saying it.

Annie leans forward on her elbows, “And yet he can’t get enough of your WAP?”

“My what?”

“Wet ass pussy,” Ruby supplies helpfully.

Beth's eyes bulge. “Don’t say things like that!”

“Geez it's a compliment.” It’s not, really, but Annie keeps going, waving her hand to emphasize her point, “Like you literally shot him, but he still wants to stick it in you?”

“She’s got a point, B.”

They’re quiet for a moment—Beth and Annie glower at each other over the island while Ruby glances between them like she's waiting for them to start throwing punches.

“Why were you at Boland Bubbles on Friday?” 

“I was stealing the baked goods obvi. Don’t change the subject.”

“Annie! Those were for charity!” Ah there it is—a classic Beth pivot. But Annie’s ready for her bullshit.

“That’s besides the point.”

“No, I specifically asked you not to do that.” 

“Stop trying to turn this around on me when you’re the one going to pound town with a literal gangbanger.”

“So?” Beth shrugs. She actually shrugs! Now Annie’s not sure if she can stop herself from climbing over the island and throttling her.

“What do you mean so?” Annie asks incredulously, right as Ruby says “Have you lost your damn mind?” 

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

“Oh. My. God.” Annie and Ruby exchange disbelieving looks. “What? Does he dick you so good you can’t remember he’s a literal murderer?”

“Do you have to be so crude?”

“Do you have to be so stupid?”

“I’m not-”

“Tell me what exactly isn’t stupid about having an affair with a man you literally shot!”

“I-”

“Let’s not forget the hitman!” Ruby interjects.

“Yes thank you, Ruby, how could we forget the hitman! I mean seriously Beth, of all the boneheaded, reckless things you’ve ever done this has got to be-”

“I KNOW!” Beth snaps. Her eyes are wide and glassy, pleading with Annie to stop. She brings a shaky hand up and presses it to her face. “I know.” Her words come out as a muffled sob and Annie feels her resolved break a bit, suddenly unsure if she’s doing the right thing. Beth scrubs furiously at her face for a moment, before looking up at them again. “You don’t understand.”

“Help us then,” Ruby’s voice is soft and pleading.

“I-” Beth begins, “I just, I just.” She pauses, pressing her lips firmly together. She opens and closes her mouth several times before she speaks again. “He-, I-, well, it’s um...complicated.”

Annie narrows her eyes, “Yeah, tell us something we don’t know.”

“He just,” Beth’s hands flail as she struggles for the right words. Then in a small voice, she says, “It’s just what I want.”

Annie’s stomach drops. She’s not exactly sure what she was expecting to hear, but this certainly isn’t what she wanted.

“Are you trying to tell us he is what you want?” Ruby asks quietly.

Beth purses her lips and looks away. She glares at some space just over Annie’s head for a long time. Annie holds her breath, waiting for Beth’s answer, already knowing she’s not going to like it. Then Beth's gaze snaps back to Ruby, and she gives her a sharp nod, just dips her head once, before looking away again.

Annie’s not sure what to do, not sure how to process that her uptight, responsible sister has basically admitted to having feelings for an actual gang banger. A man who murdered an innocent woman right in front of them. For someone so smart, Beth could really be so stupid.

So Annie does the only thing she can think to do—rounding the island and draping herself over her big sister. She knows it’s not enough—she can’t shield Beth from danger with her body or protect Beth from herself—but she can be there for her.

Ruby joins them, wrapping them up firmly in her arms. As Annie listens to Beth’s steady beating heart, she makes a silent prayer to whoever is listening to keep her stupid sister safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> @bethsuglywigs

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't originally going to post this part first, but somehow it's ready first. That just how life goes sometimes. Sorry to subject you to Dean's disgusting thoughts with no Brio interaction reprieve. BUT I promise that they interact (and other, less disgusting people watch them) in the other chapters. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr:  
> @femalegothic  
> @bethsuglywigs


End file.
